


A Thief Among Men

by lahijadelmar



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Eventual Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, F/M, M/M, Multi, Western
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 08:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2540528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lahijadelmar/pseuds/lahijadelmar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The disgraced former Sheriff, Thorin Oakenshield, is determined to regain his town from the infamous outlaw, Smaug "Brushfire" Cunningham. Bilbo Baggins, keeper of the general store in a quiet West Texas town, is content to keep out of trouble and go about his routine life. The cheeky traveling 'Wizard', Professor Grey, finds a way for their paths to cross. The both of them, along with a rag-tag group of cowboys, will have to work together if there's any hope of taking down the menace that is "Brushfire". (Rating likely to rise)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can't really explain where this idea came from or why. I admit to liking both Westerns and The Hobbit, obviously, but the idea that they might just work well together...? Difficult to say, really. I must make the initial disclaimer of sorry if my writing is sloppy (this chapter sort of just poured out of me in one day) and, for any history buffs out there, I apologize for any possible inaccuracies. I do endeavor to be as accurate to the time period as possible, but I'm certainly no expert. Feel free to correct!

Bilbo told himself, pretty regularly in fact, that he needn’t ever ask for anything more than what he had. An honest wage in a safe, wholesome town like Shire, Texas, was something a lot of men like him could only dream about. True, there were many who came out this way in search of their fortune and _sometimes_ Bilbo would wonder what it might be like to follow a dream like that: just giving up everything and heading out further west to see what riches awaited him.

 _Sometimes_ , after a hard day’s work, he would look out beyond the town, over the mesas where the sun set into an explosion of something he could only qualify as golden fire. A part of him felt a yearning and would wonder if the sunset was calling to him.

But the reminder of dangers he had no knowledge of or preparation for would immediately quell that wanderlust. He would hear through the paper or town gossip of someone that had run afoul of a gang, come too close to Native land, or in some way had succumbed to the unforgiving forces of nature this harsh land offered and that would be it. Bilbo would once again cling to the security of his position as shopkeeper. Dealing with the ornery moods of his customers and keeping rats out of the grain was all the adventure a modest man like himself needed. _Surely._

Bilbo lived like this, in willful ignorance, for years. Even if this lifestyle felt like it could (and would) go on forever, offering nothing unexpected, it simply didn’t.

He was well into 30’s when the thin veil of security was ripped from him, though this change was introduced with more of a subtle whimper than a bang. Had he known beforehand the significance of the older man in the top hat, he would’ve bolted the general store door that afternoon and hid beneath the counter until maybe he moved along.

But, of course, Bilbo was completely unsuspecting as the man came in, removing his hat and smiling warmly beneath his handlebar moustache. Even though there was air about him that seemed vaguely familiar, Bilbo couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.

“Afternoon,” Bilbo greeted, smiling tentatively. “What can I do for you, sir?”

The old man seemed tickled by the question for reasons that Bilbo was completely unable to guess.

“That depends,” His accent was difficult to place. It also spoke to a memory Bilbo didn’t yet have complete access to. The old man continued, “You don’t remember me, do you, Mister Baggins?”

Bilbo didn’t want to be rude, feeling as though he really _should_ know who this man was and that if he said ‘no’ he might insult him greatly. He therefore hesitated from answering right away, surveying him up and down for some sort of clue.

“Wait…Gandalf? _Professor Grey_?”

The childhood memory hit him suddenly, that of a tall, thin man dressed in a nice suit and top hat as though he were a man of substance. He’d make his rounds into town every now and then, carting his ‘Miracle Elixir’ in the wagon behind him. Some folks called him a charlatan at first, one of those snake-oil salesman that sold over-priced piss water and called it all-purpose, magical medicine.

Bilbo’s parents, however, -keepers of the general store at the time- took a special liking to Professor Grey and it was them who pointed out, “If he’s a con-man, why would he keep comin’ back? Anyway, that Elixir of his might not perform miracles, but it sure cleared up Mrs. Bracegirdle’s cough, didn’t it?”

Indeed, there seemed to be _some_ sort of beneficial property associated with Professor Grey’s mixture. As such, he was welcomed like a local in Shire whenever he turned up and seemed to make a good profit any time he did. Bilbo also would never forget the fireworks he’d bring with him. Because they were such a rarity and neither Bilbo nor any other child could figure out how in the world he made them, they all took to calling Gandalf ‘The Wizard’ and chasing after his wagon gleefully whenever he rolled into town.

That seemed _so long_ ago, Bilbo wondered if he didn’t dream it. Gandalf was, easily, the closest thing he had ever gotten to something unexpected and evidence to the fact now that he didn’t imagine it at all.

Gandalf, meanwhile, simply answered his identification with a small chuckle.

“Well. Don’t think I’ve seen you in at least twenty years…but I guess you remember me, somehow.”

Bilbo really didn’t know how or why, being that he never counted himself a very memorable person and that Gandalf allegedly traveled the world when he wasn’t setting off fireworks for country bumpkins or selling them magical piss-water. Of all the people he met and things he saw, why in the world would he remember one grocer’s son from a small West Texas town?

It made him suspicious more than it did flatter him.

“That I do,” Gandalf conceded. “One doesn’t forget a firey little boy like Bilbo Baggins, not in a million years.”

He laughed at his own words and Bilbo took no heed of them. Salesman, charlatans or no, were always good at hollow flattery. No doubt Professor Grey was trying to sell something or make a pitch and Bilbo had already made up his mind that he was going to stand firm against it.

Instead, however, the Wizard made a quick visual sweep of the general store and then sighed as if disappointed.

“I have to say, I was hoping not to find you here…but it’s no matter. A late start is better than never stepping out your door at all, eh?”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes. He had absolutely no idea what Gandalf was talking about and had half a mind to throw him out on account of senility. It was certainly a plausible reason.

“I’d like to have a drink with you this evening, if you’d be so kind to oblige me,” Gandalf continued, unabated from Bilbo’s lack of responsiveness. “At that quaint pub down the street, of course. Perhaps I’ll treat us to some dinner as well. Oh, don’t give me that look, Bilbo, I simply want to catch up. There’s so much to discuss.”

 _The Rusty Horseshoe_ is what Gandalf was referring to and it was more of a dingy saloon than it was a _pub_. Bilbo never frequented the establishment. Shire, Texas was as quiet and peaceful a town as one could find in this area and that might have been because all of the immorality was concentrated in said dirty saloon.

Even still, that wasn’t much. Mostly it was just smelly and sad, the quiet disrupted only by the sounds of one of the two or three town drunks stumbling back outside. It wasn’t Bilbo’s preference of a place to spend time and his practical side was already answering with a firm ‘no’.

But then again…he suspected his night would be just about the same as it always was if he didn’t go. He’d close up shop, he’d go upstairs to his living area, make some dinner, read a book…and then it was lights out. He never minded the routine of it before or even the loneliness, really, preferring his solitude. And yet…passing up a potentially interesting conversation in favor of his same schedule made him inexplicably disappointed.

What could it hurt to change things up a bit?

Bilbo had to admit there was an element of curiosity here too, as he was eager to know where Gandalf’s special interest in him originated from. He supposed he’d have to agree to the meeting if he wanted to find out.

“Well…alright, so long as you’re payin’,” he finally agreed. “Speaking of, why don’t you do the same while you’re in here?”

Even though Bilbo hadn’t meant any of this to be teasing, Gandalf seemed amused nonetheless. He bought pipe tobacco and an apple and then bid Bilbo a temporary farewell as he left to reacquaint himself with the rest of the town.

Bilbo watched from the dusty window as Gandalf ventured into town, munching idly on his apple and being greeted as if he _hadn’t_ been gone a good 20 years.

A feeling he had no word or explanation for stirred in his gut: something close to anticipation and dread, a knowledge that there was no turning back now.

He should’ve never let that man inside.

* * *

 

Bilbo contemplated not going after all. His apprehension made it tempting to continue onward as he normally would have every evening, to pretend that the Wizard had never stopped by his store at all.

It was around sunset that he had just finished locking up. From where he stood outside the general store he could easily see the golden explosion settling just over the mesas. It lit up the sands of the sprawling desert, bringing to mind stories he had read of cities made of pure gold. He wondered if there really were such things somewhere out there and a voice he hadn’t heard in years told him, ‘ _You’ll never know if you don’t go looking’_.

The wind chose to blow right then, rustling through his already messy blonde curls as if beckoning him forward.

He shook his head after a time, attempting to gain control of his mental facilities once more. It was impossible to say where these momentary inclinations came from and why, but they were getting very annoying. Bilbo shoved his hat over his head, flipped up his collar, and turned from the symbolic gust of wind to make his way down to the saloon. It was nothing more than a midlife crisis, he was sure. All it took was time and the reassurance that he was where he _should_ be.

That’s all it was. Really.

Bilbo was so busy reassuring himself that he almost didn’t notice the unusual sight awaiting him in the saloon. Gandalf, perhaps unsurprisingly, was nowhere to be found, but in his place was another stranger.

This stranger was _big_ , square-shouldered, and sitting at the corner table with a mean stare. Said stare was barely visible beneath the shadow of the brim of his hat and the bristles of his mutton-chops and mustache…but it was there, all the same, and now directed _right_ at Bilbo. The smoke rising from his cigar and furling around his jagged face certainly didn’t help Bilbo’s immediate terror, either.

The Grocer simply froze for a while, mouth agape, and if he had any plans of running as far away from the saloon as he could, they were quelled immediately.

“Bilbo!”

Young Isiah Twofoot had called to him from his position as bartender. It was clear that he and his sister, Pearl, had been left on duty by their father for the evening for who-knew-what reason. Bilbo sympathized for them and their youthful inexperience. Shire hadn’t seen a wanderer like the man in the corner in _years_ , certainly not in the lifetimes of Isiah’s or Pearl’s, and he knew he simply couldn’t leave them to fend for themselves.

“Evening,” he greeted the siblings with as brave a smile as he could manage, taking a seat at the bar. If _he_ was afraid, he could only imagine what the two teenagers were feeling.

He had hoped, perhaps, that the two would have the sense to offer him a drink, perhaps some mindless chatter- otherwise, pretend the big scary man in the corner _wasn’t_ there. But that, of course, would have been asking too much of a Twofoot’s intellect.

“You know that man?” Isiah asked Bilbo, leaning forward and talking in what he must have thought was a subtle whisper. Bilbo was sure the man could hear every syllable.

“’Course I don’t know him. Did you see me say ‘hello’?”

Isiah didn’t seem to know what to say that, instead chancing another timid look over at the man. Meanwhile, Pearl leaned forward and whispered just as conspicuously as her brother,

“Isiah wants me to go offer him another drink! He says I should do it on account of the customers likin’ me so much.

Bilbo sent Isiah a disapproving look and the boy bowed his head in shame.

“You shouldn’t do things like that to your sister,” he scolded. “You’re supposed to protect her, don’t you know that? Look, give me the drink. I’ll take care of it.”

He really didn’t know if it was _him_ making this offer or some bout of ignorance and lack of self-preservation that had just…decided to take hold of him right then and there. ‘Go talk to that man’ he thought, ‘and you won’t be walking back, Bilbo Baggins…’

Still. He couldn’t chance simple-minded Isiah or Pearl walking over there and attempting conversation. Their blood would be on his hands if he did.

The two siblings watched Bilbo with some kind of misplaced reverence as he took the glass of whiskey over to the man’s table. He hoped it wasn’t obvious that he nearly keeled over when the man noticed his approach and steeled him again with that terrifying gaze.

“Thought you’d like another, Mister,” Bilbo explained with a smile, doing his best to pretend like the stranger was just some familiar customer in his store. ‘Ain’t nobody that doesn’t like being treated kindly,’ his mother used to say.

Even with all his genuine charm, nothing seemed to melt the stranger’s resolve. He did not say ‘thank you’. Instead, his gaze seemed to harden and Bilbo really did begin to wonder if these were going to be his last moments.

“…you the bartender now?” the man asked, his voice a very low growl. He punctuated his question with a particularly big puff of smoke from his cigar.

Bilbo didn’t really know how to answer, feeling like any response he could come up with would seem surly and might rouse the man further. Provided he was…roused at all as it was? It was difficult to tell, since the man’s default emotion seemed to be unapproachable anger.

Thankfully, the moment was interrupted by the sound of someone else entering, that of spurs jingling on the wooden floor. It was an older stranger this time around. Though he looked a bit hardened in his own way, his round, cheery, bearded face assured that he was no one to be afraid of.

“Evenin’, brother!” he hollered with a wave, apparently to the man Bilbo was trying to serve.

The older stranger made his way across the saloon to the table in the corner and the unnerving man… _smiled…_ which somehow made him even more frightening. The two men then proceeded to greet each other with a very warm familiarity and Bilbo supposed they must really have been brothers.

After a few jokes and a firm hug, the older stranger turned to Bilbo and said casually with a grin, “Same for me, thanks.”

The older man’s politeness and interruption to what very well might have been his death sentence made Bilbo forgiving of his confusion. He wouldn’t have dared correct him anyway, seeing the pistols hid stealthily on both of their hips.

“You heard ‘im,” Bilbo said to the siblings as he returned. The two of them were bewildered, eager to know what in the world was going on, but did as they were requested instead of asking questions none of them had the answers to.

Apparently, Bilbo thought as he delivered the second glass of whiskey to the table, his evening was going to be spent playing waiter instead of having dinner with a Wizard.  

 _Fair enough_.

It was about the time that he was setting the second whiskey down -being completely ignored by the stranger brothers- that the sound of whooping and hollering could be heard outside. Perhaps needless to say, this wasn’t a noise common to Shire, and all three of the locals present stiffened up with rising nervousness.

The two strangers, on the other hand, looked at each other knowingly and muttered in unison, “Fili and Kili.”

Fili and Kili, as they seemed to be called, came busting into the saloon not long after being announced. These two men were significantly younger than the brothers- in their mid-to-late twenties, if Bilbo had to guess. They were both indisputably handsome, rugged, and… _ungodly_ loud.

“Balin, Dwalin!” they both cried out to the strangers in what could only be described as a humorous, mirrored juxtaposition of prior events. Well, at least the strangers had names now, Bilbo noted, though not knowing which name belonged to whom did him very few favors.

There were more warm greetings, more drink orders made to the Grocer-turned-barkeep, and Isiah and Bilbo had to do their best to keep up. Pearl was otherwise occupied: once the two young men had caught sight of her, they both set to work seeing who could charm her more. She didn’t seem very partial to either one in particular so much as she did the fact that they were _both_ paying her attention.

This would have been manageable had eight or so more men (Bilbo was unable to get an exact count with how busy he was) not shown up to the gathering, had _all_ the men not proceeded to order food. Re-delegated, Pearl was peeled way to the kitchen to cook, Isiah poured drinks and Bilbo continued to serve (his hat and coat long gone, now replaced with a fitting apron).

The saloon was the busiest, the loudest Bilbo had ever seen it and for the life of him he could not guess who these men where or what business they had meeting up in Shire. They _looked_ like outlaws, were loud like outlaws, but seemed, for the most part, to do their best in the way of being polite despite all of that. If they _were_ criminals, they were criminals with manners and Bilbo supposed he shouldn’t have been that surprised. He had never met an outlaw anyway, perhaps they were all of them genteel?

Honestly though, Bilbo didn’t really care. He was too exhausted to wonder where these men came from or what they were after, he just wanted them to finish their business and leave as soon as possible so that he could go collapse in his bed and try to forget this had ever happened.

And right when he felt like his legs were going to collapse underneath him from over-exertion, who should stroll in but the Wizard himself.

“Bilbo!” he greeted him in a tone that was far too cheery for the Grocer’s current lack of patience. “I didn’t realize- do you moonlight as a barkeep?”

Bilbo didn’t even have a chance to correct him or sternly ask where in the world he had been this whole time. Gandalf was, for some reason, being greeted by the large gathering of burly, bearded, loud men as if he fit seamlessly into their company.

“I see you’ve all had refreshment,” the Wizard addressed the gathering. “Good, good, excellent…and yet…we’re missing our final addition, aren’t we?”

“He got a late start,” the first, intimidating stranger –Dwalin, Bilbo thinks- answered. “Mighta gotten caught in a dust storm. But he’ll be here.”

Bilbo was only listening idly as he gathered empty glasses and plates, his patience and charm depleted. Of course, not so much as an apology from his supposed host. Why, again, did he think accepting this invitation would be a good idea?

Still, the men continued to laugh and talk far too loud for Bilbo’s headache, Gandalf joined them in their revelry, and figuring his work just about done for the sake of the siblings, Bilbo ripped off his apron.

“I think you and Pearl can do just fine from here. I’ll just be-“

The words died in his throat as the once extremely noisy saloon fell dead silent. Isiah was looking forward at the door, mouth agape, at whatever had just entered that had made everything stop in its tracks.

Confused, Bilbo turned to see what in the world could’ve had such power. He had already decided before looking that it must have been the devil himself.

And…maybe it was. The man that stood before them was like no one Bilbo had seen before, like nothing he could have ever imagined. He was tall and solid, more so than Dwalin or any of the men that had entered. Long, raven-black hair cascaded down his shoulders from beneath the black, wide-brimmed hat he wore. When he looked up enough for the lamplight of the saloon to illuminate him, two piercing, ice-blue eyes shone from the darkness he seemed to radiate. His face was chiseled, his jaw pronounced and shadowed by stubble.

Bilbo would have thought him devastatingly handsome if not for the paralyzing fear his mere presence seemed to cause. Or was it fear at all? He couldn’t really tell. He had never felt something quite like this before in reaction to anyone and he could only qualify it as best he knew how.  

The man strode into the saloon with an unexpected grace, removing his black hat and cloak. He was only slightly less intimidating without them. Seeming to remember himself, he gave the company a grin of familiarity and said,

“Sorry for the tardiness, boys. I lost my way here, _twice._ ”

This seemed to be the right thing to say to diffuse the respectful tension, as they all broke out into a laugh. He was greeted with more of the firm hugs, slaps on the back and warm smiles. There was a part of Bilbo that felt envious of the companionship.

He didn’t have time to really ruminate over this however, or slip back out to go home, as Gandalf came over with a renewed interest in his shopkeeper.

“Sheriff!” he called to the new-comer, taking Bilbo somewhat firmly by the shoulder and leading him over. “Sheriff, I’d very much like you to meet my dear friend, Bilbo Baggins.”

Bilbo had no idea why he was being introduced to this man and it worried him that Gandalf would think him at all relevant to this gathering. He wanted nothing more than to escape, not to exchange pleasantries with men of ambiguous moral code.

The man- The _Sheriff_ , apparently, looked at Bilbo with odd sense of…awe? He couldn’t quite place the expression and he supposed it didn’t really matter because it was gone as soon as it had come.

“Bilbo,” Gandalf said as if talking to a child. “This is Sheriff Oakenshield- Thorin, as some of us know him, though I think he would prefer a more formal title from you.”

The silence returned and the Sheriff stepped forward a little, his spurs jingling again every time a boot hit the saloon floor. He adjusted his belt and eyed Bilbo in a way that made him inclined to blush and look down.

“So…this is him?” The Sheriff asked no one in particular. He proceeded to scoff, evidently unimpressed. “Sure doesn’t look like the stealin’ type. What is it you do, boy?”

It took Bilbo a minute to realize that the Sheriff was directing the question to him. Not Isiah, not one of the young men behind him, but _him_. Now, he was angry. They couldn’t have been more than 8 or 10 years apart from each other and yet this supposed Sheriff would deemed it necessary to refer to him as _boy_?

Gandalf seemed to sense his offense and squeezed his shoulder, perhaps in warning. Bilbo was too fed-up to care very much what came out of his mouth, regardless of how ruthless the Sheriff might have looked.

“I’m _35_ , first of all,” he corrected. “And I own the General Store down the street, making me- wait, what did you mean by _stealing_?”

Perhaps in being overwhelmed he had missed the Sheriff’s comment at first. It was hard to say at this point, but also irrelevant. He looked over at Gandalf for some kind of explanation. His Wizard, in turn, was smiling beneath his neatly groomed mustache with palpable nervousness. He patted Bilbo on the shoulder, replying,

“All in good time, fellows, all in good time. Come, Mister Baggins, join us. There’s much to discuss.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saddening backstories are told and the contract is presented.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that there a couple (maybe more) things in this chapter that will continue to remain vague, but I promise that all will become clear in time. I just can't give everything away too soon, is all. I like to keep up a little mystery until the bitter end. 
> 
> Also: Tesoro Real is pronounced Tez-oro Ree-ahl, for those who may not know, and it translates from (my broken) Spanish to 'Royal Treasure'. Fitting, no?

There was a reason they took to calling him “Brushfire”. Thorin would have been content never knowing at all, never hearing of such a man, but such was not to be his fate, nor that of his town.

The lesson was learned on a completely unsuspecting day. Tesoro Real was in the midst of their Founder’s Day, a celebration of the town’s anniversary. It was always very lavish and the town practically shut down all operation in favor of dancing, eating and drinking. There was a lot to celebrate, after all, what with all of their financial success and prosperity. It was believed that Tesoro Real would soon become the heart of trade on the Western frontier.

Sitting in the center of all this wealth was the Durin family. With ancestors that had settled the area and members in current positions of power, it was not difficult to see that they were primarily responsible for the town’s success. Thrain served as Mayor while his eldest son, Thorin, operated as Sheriff.

The citizens of Tesoro Real rested easy knowing Thorin was in charge of their safety. He had never let them down, keeping the area peaceful and practically crimeless for the 15 years he had been in charge. With his Deputy, Dwalin Stark, at his side, there seemed to be no evil too great for Thorin to overcome.

No day did this seem truer than Founder’s Day, and no one would have anticipated in a million years that it would mark Tesoro Real’s downfall.

It began, therefore, with a brushfire.

Thorin’s sister, Dis, noticed it from up on the far away hills overlooking the town. It was a wonder she did, considering the festivities were in full swing and everyone else had been far too invested to take any notice of what was going on elsewhere.

 “What’d you suppose caused that?” she asked, her voice casual. There was no reason to get bent out of shape about a little fire, after all, they happened every now and then. Still, being that they were in the desert it was important to quell the flames quickly before they spread.

Thorin told her not to worry, he’d take care of it. He and Dwalin set off on their horses to do just that, still laughing together and enjoying the day. Their mirth continued even as they neared the hill, but came to abrupt stop when a separate fire broke out on the opposite hillside- this one much bigger than the last.

It was a bit disconcerting to say the least, but that wasn’t enough to stand in the way of the Sheriff and his job. Dwalin galloped off to the original while Thorin headed towards the bigger one.

And that must have been the purpose of those flames starting up when and how they did: the moment the Sheriff and his Deputy were separated a gunshot rang out and Thorin felt a sudden, searing pain in his arm. A bullet had grazed him, no doubt about that.

His horse, meanwhile, was in no mood to contend with rising flames and gunfire. He reared back with a whinny and tried to pull the both of them back towards town.

Thorin didn’t have time to make sense of the situation. He pulled his pistol from the holster with his good arm, thankfully at just the right moment. Dwalin was calling out to him from the opposite hill, completely unaware of the two men gaining on him from behind. The Sheriff had to fire only twice to send both of them toppling off their horses and it was enough for the Deputy to regain his awareness, too.

“The hell-…?” Dwalin attempted when the two of them met back up.

“Don’t know,” Thorin looked towards the spreading flames with a growing dread in his stomach. “Somethin’ bad…we gotta get these folks out of here.”

Thorin knew when to fight and when to protect the innocent. He supposed it was one of those necessities that came with being a keeper of the peace. Nothing Tesoro Real had faced to this point had necessitated anything more than a little intimidation, maybe some firm enforcement to keep in line. But this…this was something else entirely, something beyond Thorin’s immediate capabilities to stop and, ultimately, the lives of his townsfolk were more important than a reputation.

Dwalin did as he was told without question, he and his horse galloping full speed back towards town. Thorin, meanwhile, waited. He had already pulled his rifle –pain in his arm be damned- planning to take down as many a son-of-a-bitch as he could, whoever it was that dared to threaten his town like this.

They came like ants over the rise and through the flames, whooping and hollering, shooting off their guns and waving their torches around: a gang, Thorin guessed, and a pretty big one. He was all too happy to start taking down the first line of them. It was satisfying to watch those first few men go rolling off their horses, but his gun alone was not nearly enough to stop them all.

When they had finally spotted him and began returning the gunfire, he turned and raced back. He wasn’t big-headed enough to think he had the means to face all of them on his own. Besides that, there were far more important people in the center of town that needed to be made safe.

Dis, level-headed as ever, called out to her eldest son, Fili, to get him and Kili up on a horse. Fili was not much older than 15 at that point and Kili was only 9, and even though Thorin could clearly see the fear and confusion shining in his eldest nephew’s eyes, Fili didn’t hesitate to follow orders. Thorin knew then that making sure his family escaped unharmed was the only thing that mattered.

With that in mind, he began to look around frantically for his father.

“Thrain!” he shouted, again and again, oddly feeling like a scared child lost. Afterwards, however, he would realize that calling for his father at all was a huge mistake.

Thrain appeared, but only for a moment. Things might have been different if Thorin had known then it would be the last he’d ever see and hear of his father in this lifetime.

“You get Dis and the boys out of here, you hear me?” Thrain stared his son dead in the eye, as if to insure no defiance. “You don’t worry about me, you don’t worry about no one but them. I swear to god, I’ll shoot you myself if you don’t!”

It was the closest that either of them would ever get to saying ‘I love you’ and it was certainly enough of a kick in the backside for Thorin. He had always known better than to argue with his father.

The family was on their way out when Brushfire finally appeared. Thorin would never, ever forget the way he came charging into town like the devil on horseback, endlessly amused with the sight of Tesoro Real beginning to burn around him. He also would never forget the smirk that seemed permanently stretched out on his lizard-like face.

“We’re gonna have us a barbecue tonight, boys!” Brushfire yelled, firing off his gun a few times in some asinine method of establishing dominance- or, perhaps, to mock Thorin further. He seemed perfectly aware of who Thorin was, anyway, as his sharp gaze had been focused on him from the moment he appeared.

A huge, brick of a man accompanied him, mirroring the same shit-eating grin. It was the Brick –Azog Foster, Thorin would know him as later- that took notice of Thrain, likely aware of who he was from Thorin’s mindless calls earlier. He said something to Brushfire that was unintelligible and was answered with, “You know what they say. Out with the old…”

It was all the permission the Brick of a man needed. He pulled out his pistol and Thorin, Dis, Fili and Kili, watched as Mayor Thrain was shot in the head.

* * *

 

Having heard the story, Bilbo’s problems (what little he had) suddenly seemed very inconsequential. He _had_ watched both of his parents die, granted, but it had been a rather peaceful succumbing to illness for them both. No one had mocked him while executing them both on the spot, no one had taken everything from him in the process.

That last thought sent an odd shiver through his spine. Tesoro Real had been a peaceful town just like Shire, after all. What were the odds that something just as horrible might happen here?

Probably none, he assured himself quickly. Shire wasn’t very prosperous, it wasn’t sitting on a fortune. It would be of absolutely no use or interest to a gang leader like Brushfire.

For some reason though, that very practical thought disappointed rather than comforted him. He didn’t really want to know why.

“And that’s why we’re all here,” Balin added, once Thorin had finished his story. “We’re gonna get our town back.”

Bofur -the one Bilbo identified by his friendliness and the thickest mustache of the group- nodded. “Some folks turned against the Sheriff after that. Not us though, we know better. We’re with him to the end.”

The group of cowboys agreed with that by raising their glasses and cigars. Bilbo, meanwhile, couldn’t help but steal a momentary glance over at the Sheriff who had begun looking out one of the dirty windows. He could only guess there must have been more to Thorin than met the eye. As it was, he couldn’t figure out why a man so brusque and distant was so beloved.

Maybe he had been more personable before his life crumbled around him, he then reminded himself, and suddenly felt ashamed.

“I’m…so sorry,” Bilbo attempted. Knowing that there was no comfort in the world he could offer that would begin to suffice, it felt like more of a mockery than a condolence. “I wish there was something I could do…”

“As it so happens,” Gandalf said. “There _is_.”

Despite the fact that the group of cowboys, minus Thorin, seemed to like Bilbo well enough, they were obviously just as confused as the shopkeeper as to what usefulness he’d be to this venture.

Gandalf continued,

“What this mission truly needs is a man of honest means and genuine kindness. Mister Baggins is just that sort of-“

“’Thought you were gettin’ us a thief,” Thorin interrupted as he turned from the window. Bilbo watched Gandalf visibly wince. “That’s what you told me, Wizard.”

Bilbo found himself becoming indignant in his confusion and exclaimed, “What’s this talk of stealin’? I’m no thief! ‘Never stolen a thing in my life and I’m not gonna start now!”

“That’s obvious,” Thorin scoffed and Bilbo clenched his fists tightly- though why he was offended that his abilities at burglary were be challenged, he didn’t quite know.  

Gandalf must have realized he was losing control of the situation, perhaps having not anticipated the antagonistic tension that would form between the shopkeeper and the sheriff. The cowboys appeared pretty disquieted by it as well, but simply kept their mouths shut for lack of anything else to do or say.

“Now, now,” Gandalf interjected, loud enough to quell anything else that Thorin or Bilbo might try to say to each other. “One thing at a time, all will become clear. Balin, my dear fellow, would you kindly share the contract with Mister Baggins?”  

Bilbo was soon being handed a collection of papers of extensive, very-legal looking literature. His father had always taught him to read and investigate before signing anything, so this he did, even if he had already made up his mind that he wasn’t going to sign at all. It was a ridiculous notion, after all, thinking that a shopkeeper would be of any use to this particular effort. Regardless of his sympathy for the plight of these men, he didn’t trust this arbitrary interest in him or the continued mentions of _thievery_ that had yet to be explained. It was, all of it, just completely out of the question.

“You see, Bilbo,” Gandalf said. “Sheriff Oakenshield’s company is offering you…a job, of sorts…a potentially very profitable one, if all goes as it should.”

It was around that time that Bilbo’s perusal of the contract led him to an article on _Funeral Arrangements_.

“ _Funeral Arrangements_??” He disregarded Gandalf for the time being as he tossed the contract forward onto the table. “I already have job. A pretty good one, as a matter of fact! I’m not interested in givin’ up my family’s store to go traipsing off to… _god-knows-where_ , just to get myself shot or scalped or worse. No, gentlemen, no thank you. You’re gonna have to find yourself a stupider man than me. I’m stayin’ put. _Good night_.”

Thoroughly annoyed and indignant with the whole ordeal, Bilbo stood from the table –not even bothering to push his chair back in- shoved his hat and jacket back on, and all but stomped back towards the saloon doors.

“You think you’re safe in this town?”

It was the Sheriff, now glaring Bilbo down from where still stood at the window.  

“I’m sure the shopkeeper in my town felt plenty safe too. Why shouldn’t he? He was, for many years…until he wasn’t. None of us could’ve been ready for Brushfire. Sometimes I think the riches were only half the reason he came for us. Men like that? They just like ruinin’ nice things, like a little boy might stomp on his sister’s new doll. Anyone who gets in the way gets crushed under the heel.”

An odd shudder went down Bilbo’s spine and, as ever, he failed completely to maintain eye contact with the Sheriff. He felt that piercing stare might have been sharp enough to stab him through.

“You’re not safe, shopkeep.” The Sheriff mercifully looked away. “None of us are. So stay in your little town, tell yourself nothin’ll get you, and maybe when a man like Brushfire crosses your path you’ll remember my warning and realize how stupid you really are.”

There was a powerful, terrifying anger in the Sheriff’s words and tone of voice. Bilbo suspected it wasn’t really directed at him (how could it be, for how inconsequential he was) and that it probably should have scared him…but instead, he just felt further ashamed. If it weren’t for his pride he would’ve apologized, would’ve explained that he felt for all of them, he _did_ , but what in the world could he offer? He could barely shoot a gun and ride a horse as it was.

Instead, Bilbo said nothing. He exited quietly out of the saloon doors with every intention to go home and try –probably in vain- to forget all of this. 

* * *

 

 

How the contract got underneath his door before he even arrived home, he’d never know. It laid there on the floor nonetheless, folded neatly into an envelope, addressed in big, loopy cursive to ‘Mister Baggins’. Tucked inside was a small personal note that could have only been from the Wizard as it said in that same excessive script, ‘ _Carpe Diem’._

Despite his exhaustion, Bilbo unfolded the contract and gave it another look-through while having a quick dinner. Even upon closer inspection it was still frustratingly unclear what they had in mind for their grocer. For all Bilbo knew, they just needed some unwitting fool to use as outlaw-bait. That was probably all it was…but then, why go to all the trouble? Surely they could just grab some drunkard or any poor bastard down on his luck and desperate for money.

Bilbo wasn’t either of those things, _but_ …the quoted compensation, should the effort be successful, was handsome. A small fortune of his own to keep in savings would never go amiss…even if he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d use it for other than building repairs and maybe inheritance to a younger relative when he died.

That thought propelled him into further introspection, more along the lines of the midlife-crisis variety.

Was this all his life was meant to be? Was he just meant for selling goods and hiding himself away in a small town until he succumbed to old age? This couldn’t have been living. Perhaps it was enough for his parents who had a family to speak of anyway. Perhaps that was all the fulfillment they needed.

But as Bilbo had begun to realize with every stolen glance towards the sunset, towards the vast land sprawling out every which way that he had yet to explore, he was aspiring for more than this. Safety would always be attractive, but the story of Tesoro Real’s fate made him begin to re-evaluate whether he ever really had it at all.

What would it hurt, therefore, for him to take a leap of faith? Maybe dying for a brave and worthy cause was preferable to rotting away in a false-sense of security- no, it _definitely_ was preferable.

Some sliver remaining of Bilbo’s practicality assured him this was just exhaustion taking influence. He’d come to his senses tomorrow and realize he had no business undertaking this job, surely. All of this was just a manic episode, it said, even as he signed his name.

* * *

 

For the sake of his own sanity, Thorin had to tell himself this side-trip to Shire wasn’t completely in vain. They had needed a meeting place, after all, and an opportunity to stock up on goods while still available before the long trip west. Still, if it hadn’t been for Professor Grey’s incessant prodding to hire a so-called “charming thief” in Shire, Thorin would have definitely chosen another town. Shire, Texas was little more than a watering hole, at best.

And what a waste of time that Mister Baggins was. Thorin cared little for the handsomeness of features when the owner had nothing else redeemable within. _Charming_ , indeed. He was nothing more than a self-righteous, yellow-bellied shopkeeper and Thorin was certain he would have been more of a burden on the group than any help. All for the better that he refused.

Thorin, decided they had seen the last of that aggravating little man, ignored the expectant way Professor Grey was looking around while the group saddled up that morning. He’d had just about enough of the snake-oil salesman too and privately wished he wasn’t so invaluable to the mission so they could be done with him. As such, he hardly believed his own ears when Professor Grey called out, “Mister Baggins, good morning! It looks as though you’ve decided to join us after all!”

The Sheriff turned to see, sure enough, the small man running frantically to their group, the contract flailing out behind him like a banner. He carried a satchel with him that seemed large enough to store essentials and was dressed proper, with a neat blazer and bowtie- which would’ve been fine if they were all going to a luncheon. This man clearly had no concept of what awaited him beyond Shire and would probably end up dying of heat exhaustion on the second day of their journey.

Thorin puffed out his chest and moved to retract the job offer completely, but Balin sent him a meaningful look. Balin, the oldest of their group and a veteran, had always been like a second father to him- ergo, Thorin had never dared to argue with his will. They’d already had the conversation the night before in which Balin reminded him that Professor Grey knew many things they didn’t, that Thorin would be an idiot to not listen to him and follow his lead in regards to Mister Baggins.

“The wisdom might not be clear to you right now,” Balin had said. “But that don’t mean it ain’t there. You’d best put away your pride and give the shopkeeper a chance to prove himself. For all you know, he might be just what this expedition needs.”

Looking at Bilbo now, he had no idea how that could be true. Brushfire would need only say ‘boo’ and the fragile little man would keel over just from fright. Nevertheless, Thorin was handed the signed contract and found himself telling no one in particular to get their new addition a horse.

“Oh, I don’t really ride…” he heard Mister Baggins whining. “The horse-hair gets to me, it’s just-…haven’t done it in a while, that’s all…”

The group did their best to assure him it was fine, the horse wasn’t going to bite him. The Sheriff, on the other hand, had no time to spare for idle comfort. Completely fed up, he trotted his steed over to where Mister Baggins stood complaining, gripped him by the back of the collar, and with a hand under his arm, hoisted the little man in front of him on the saddle.

“Mister Baggins is just gonna have to learn on the way,” he said, his voice sharp and terse to make it clear that he was in no mood for argument. “He’ll be riding with me until he’s grown a damn spine.”  

There were a few scattered chuckles before the group moved out of town in a thunderous gallop. Despite his insult, it was very clear to the Thorin that the shopkeeper, in fact, had a spine, as it had gone completely rigid against his chest and remained that way for some time.


End file.
